Battle Royale: Historical Figures
by Earthb0undM1SFIT
Summary: What happens when God strands 42 historical figures on a island to participate in a twisted game of Battle Royale?
1. Introduction

(note: This introduction to "Battle Royale: Historical Figures" is written in a entirely different syntax then the actual competition will be. It is merely for convenience.)

God: Oh! There you are. I was beginning to wonder when you would come. he waves his hand over the stone, causing it to vanish This? Trouble in the Middle East. Again. Ay, ay, ay, I'm starting to wonder if it was a good idea to put the center to all three monotheistic religions in one place. I mean, c'mon, it's convenient, right? Right?

God: ANYHOO. I suppose your wondering why you're here, and I'm here? Well, the meaning of life question is actually relatively simple, you see.. he appears to be listening to someone off camera Oh? Not enough time? Me damn, can't the networks give us more then an hour block? After all, I did create the whole fricken' universe. Jesus. he suddenly realizes that he is still on camera, and smiles again

God: Right. ANYHOO. I've gotten bored lately. I mean, yeah, you got the Middle East blowing up, and the world on the midst of global warming, but other than that, what is going on? Christ. I brought Anna Nicole Smith up here to entertain me. I knew she had a thing for old men... That was probably a mistake. But, ANYHOO. So, I'm sittin' here, and Jesus comes up with this pretty sweet idea. See, he recently saw that one Japanese flick. Battle Royale. He loved the idea of it, and he almost convinced me to send the idea to George, but I'm not really to keen of doing that. The last idea Jesus sent to him was Iraq, and George really took that one and ran with it. Unfortunately, Jesus was wrong. Damn human blood. ANYHOO, we thought of something else.

God: Brilliant idea, really. I didn't think I had it in me. My last great idea was Roswell, but it hasn't really caught on yet. Maybe in a few more years. But, ANYHOO. I called up a few favors to Lucifer, and we are proud to present to you the very first edition of Battle Royale: Historical Figures. That's right, we will be bringing forty-two historical figures to one secluded island somewhere in the world to battle it out for. Erm.. for.. .. What are we giving them again? Oh, okay. Well, for a prize that will be disclosed later. It appears that I am out of time, so, without further ado, the forty two contestants of BATTLE ROYALE: HISTORICAL FIGURES!


	2. Cast

MALES  
1. Shakespeare  
2. Alexander The Great  
3. Napoleon Bonaparte

4. George W. Bush  
5. Julius Caeser  
6. Winston Churchill  
7. Leonardo Da Vinci  
8. Charles Darwin  
9. Albert Einstein  
10. Sigmund Freud  
11. Mohandas Gandhi  
12. Homer  
13. Adolf Hitler  
14. Louis XVI  
15. Abraham Lincoln  
16. Karl Marx  
17. Isaac Newton  
18. George Washington  
19. Bill Clinton  
20. Martin Luther King, Jr.  
21. Saddam Hussein  
FEMALES  
1. Harriet Tubman  
2. Emily Bronte

3. Amelia Earhart  
4. Nancy Reagan  
5. Annie Oakley  
6. Helen Keller  
7. Susan B. Anthony  
8. Joan of Arc  
9. Marilyn Monroe

10. Anne Frank  
11. Mary Shelley  
12. Cleopatra  
13. Emily Dickinson  
14. Mother Teresa  
15. Pocahontas  
16. Janet Reno  
17. Sacagawea  
18. Laura Wilder  
19. Helen of Troy  
20. Eve  
21. Hillary Clinton 


	3. Orientation

"What the hell?" Saddam Hussein said, rubbing his temple, "Where am I? Is orientation done with?" He glanced around, and saw forty-one other people, dressed in rather eccentric and different apparel. His brow furrowed, and he began to wonder if he had actually entered hell itself. "Hell is a fucking weird place," he whispered, sighing.

Elsewhere in the room, Helen Keller continued on with her daily tasks. She had a pen in her hand and babbled something unintelligible, drawing over and over on the person next to her, who happened to be Bill Clinton. "Oh yeah, baby," Bill smiled, "You can draw on me any day." From the corner of his eye, he saw a looming figure approach. It couldn't be... his wife?

"Bill, what the –FUCK- do you think your doing?" she yelled, "Fucking shit. The last thing I need on my hands is another sex scandal. I'm trying to fucking run for the presidency of the United fucking States of America! Jesus Christ!" Halfway through her outburst, the room got quiet, except for the gurgles of Helen Keller. For what seemed like a century, everyone sat in awkward silence.

"O Zeus! Looks like I'm not in Olympus anymore!"

Homer, the blind poet, rocked back and forth in the corner of the room. feeling the walls. After issuing this profound statement, he began frantically yelling and screaming random Greek names. "I think he may have one of em' brain problems," George Bush whispered to Napoleon Bonaparte, sitting next to him. The French General looked over at him, widening his eyes. "To whom do those words move?" he questioned, "By whom do you think I am? The whore of Venice?" He shaked his head and turned away.

The room quickly became enveloped in chaos. Homer frantically began yelling at names, Bill and Hillary were at each other's throats, and the rest of the room were oddly entranced by their behavior. Suddenly, a door opened on the far side of the room. A clean cut, white man, walked in. He carried a loaded pistol in his hand. He looked around the room, and quietly said, "Oh, my god."

Everyone paused for a brief second, stared at the man, and then proceeded to engage in their previous activities. Nonchalantly, a group of eight or so armed men walked in, pushing a large cart full of bags. The man with the pistol seemed to be more and more agitated. He paced back and forth, until suddenly, something snapped.

"DAMN IT!" he yelled. He shot his gun. The bullet landed in the forehead of the rambling Homer, who stopped suddenly. "I can see!" he whispered. He then fell forward, landing next to a startled Leonardo Da Vinci, who proceeded to scream and run around like a small girl. "That's so disgusting!" he yelled with a slight lisp.

"SHUTUP!" the man up front yelled. He shot his gun in the air. It hit the ceiling, and appeared to cause a minor water pipe to burst. A thin trickle of water began to hit the man's hair. Not phased, he began to speak again. "I'M SPECIAL AGENT JACK BAUER OF CTU LOS ANGELES!" he screamed, "IF YOU DON'T FOLLOW MY ORDERS, YOU WILL DIE."  
"God, forgive me," he whispered to himself. "ALRIGHT, YOU WILL LISTEN TO WHAT I SAY, OR YOU WILL END UP LIKE THIS MAN HERE. I HAVEN'T SLEPT IN 24 HOURS, I'VE KILLED ONE PERSON, AND I CUT MYSELF SHAVING. I'M IN A VERY BAD MOOD." The group became quiet. Jack's hair soaked in the water, and it dripped onto his lips. He had to blow air onto his face to keep himself from getting drenched.

"YOU WILL WATCH THIS MOVIE!" he said. The soldiers took a television off the rack. "THIS TELEVISION IS THE HIGHEST DEFINITION. EVER. IT IS AVAILABLE AT THE RELATIVELY LOW PRICE OF $3,432 AT YOUR LOCAL CIRCUIT CITIES - CITY - DAMN IT!" He paused, looked around, and said, "NOW SIT BACK, RELAX, AND ENJOY THE MOVIE."

The screen flickered. A DVD Menu appeared. "Christ, who has the remote?" one of the soldiers said. Everyone shrugged. The soldier sighed, "Jesus." He proceeded to push a button on the television. A additional screen appeared, asking for optional commentary (with Jack Bauer and Frodo Baggins). Finally, the movie began to play:

God: There you are! I'm sorry you caught me at such a bad time. Okay, let's get right down to the meat and potatoes of this whole thing. I suppose your wondering why you are here? I mean, most of you are dead. And those who aren't - sorry to tell you - the world is going to end in a couple of years anyways, so you're basically dead, too. I have momentarily resurrected you, and placed you on a bit of a purgatory. Here is where you will compete in a amazing competition.

God is now the voiceover, as various shots of the island are shown

God (VO): This is a game that will test your skills of just about everything. The winner of this game will receive a prize to die for. Both literally and figuratively. It is fricken amazin', have faith in me. The concept of this game is simple. The last one standing wins.

various weapons are shown

God (VO): First and foremost, you may noticed that around your neck is a large piece of metal. This piece of metal will explode whenever I feel like pressing a button. Throughout the game, I will announce danger zones. If you enter one of these zones –BOOM-. You die. Game over.

God (VO): Each of you will be given a random weapon, ranging from a house knife to a machine gun. You must kill each other in seven days. If people are still alive after seven days, I will send you all to a place called Pearth, where you will have to live eternity in pain and torture so terrible that you will most definately regret not winning. If you die, you will be sent here to. So in other words, treat this as you are actually alive. Which you currently are. But.. shit .. I'm confused.

the view turns back on God, who is reading blatantly from a piece of paper

God: Eff it. Just kill each other and make good T.V.

the screen turns black

Jack paused, letting it sink in. "DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?" he asked, quickly following with, "GOOD, THEN LET'S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS. ONE BY ONE, I WILL CALL YOU FORWARD, WHERE YOU WILL TAKE A BAG OF YOUR CHOOSING. THIS BAG HAS A WEAPON, A FLASHLIGHT, A MAP, AND SUFFICIENT FOOD AND WATER. YOU WILL LEAVE AND NEVER RETURN. IF YOU RETURN, YOU WILL EXPERIENCE PAIN LIKE NO OTHER. "

Everyone sat in stunned silence. "God, forgive me," Jack whispered. "ALRIGHT .. FIRST PERSON IS.." One by one, the historical figures received their bag and left. The game had begun.

**MALE #10 HOMER DEAD  
41 remain**


	4. Instinct

Annie Oakley ran swiftly out of the building and into a thick wood. She still was not quite sure what to think of her situation. _A game of killing people? Murder is anything but a game_. Still, she knew what to do. The sharpshooter hoped for the best as she reached into her bag. Her hand touched something cool. Grinning, she grabbed the handle of her weapon and quickly took it out of the bag.

_Annie is sitting at a smoky bar. She is very young. Fifteen, maybe. Despite this, she is drowning herself in bourbon. Next to her is a middle-aged man, who is desperately trying to get her attention. "Hey, pretty lady," he drawls. Annie remains stoic, looking straight ahead and sipping her whiskey._

"_I said hey, pretty lady," the man repeats himself. He reaches out to grab her shoulder. Annie quickly reacts, swinging her bourbon bottle at the man. It shatters on impact. The man falls to the ground._

"_Now who the fuck do you think you are?"_

_Annie swivels around to see a few men standing in front of her. They each carry bottles._

_Unflinchingly, Annie reaches into her waistband and pulls out two revolvers. "Woah, woah," says one of the men, waving his hands in the air, "We don't want any of that, do we?" Annie circles the group, inching towards the exit door. "Just leave me alone," she demands, "All I want is to be left alone."_

The gun. A Smith and Wesson. She wasn't familiar with the build, but it would not take long for her to adjust. Annie was resourceful. This was not the first time she was left alone. In fact, she liked it this way. She placed the gun in her waistband, and continued to run.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there has to be a way out of this," Abraham Lincoln said.

President Lincoln put together a group of six people very quickly. He figured that strength in numbers was paramount. Plus, given that his weapon was a paper fan, he needed allies like he'd needed a competent bodyguard at the Ford theatre. So, when the game had begun, he stopped outside of the school and selected a few people to pull aside: Shakespeare, George W. Bush, Marilyn Monroe, Sigmund Freud, and Mary Shelley.

Of course they agreed. He, after all, was Abraham fucking Lincoln. If anyone could get people out of a mess, it would be him. That was his reputation, right? Lincoln, though, knew better. He was more concerned about self-preservation than tending to the needs of the less fortunate. Beneath the gentle façade of the giant man was an almost Machiavellian persona.

And, besides, his five newfound friends were no Team of Rivals. They were the best he had, though. Just naïve enough to think that teamwork actually mattered. Nevertheless, he did not underestimate the abilities of his band of brothers. His opinion quickly changed as he began to engage his allies.

They were sitting in a small circle that Sigmund Freud dubbed "the circle of friendship." Everyone ignored that comment. Anyways, despite being very confused, the group had found a small cabin about a half mile away from the school. They entered and sat down to discuss their prospects of survival.

Needless to say, nobody was contributing much besides Lincoln. His penchant for domination, as well the rest of the group's cluelessness, made for a real lack of intelligence. Lincoln stopped in the middle of a typical monologue and examined his surroundings. "Good fucking god," he whispered to himself.

"_Sir!"_

_A courier rushed towards Abraham, who was sitting at his desk. "What is it?" he glanced over his newspaper. "Sir, South Carolina has seceded from the Union. They are firing on the Fort." Lincoln put down the newspaper and chuckled. "They won't stand a chance, son," he laughed, "What are they going to do, send their slaves to war?"_

"Snap out of it, Honest Abe," Lincoln said to himself. Sigmund Freud glanced over at the President, his eyes widening. "Feeling guilt, are you, Mr. Lincoln?" Sigmund questioned, "Should have cared more about the slaves, right?" Lincoln stared blankly at Sigmund Freud. If only, he thought, if only I had one of them guns. This would be a fuckin' bloodbath of Gettysburg proportions.

Meanwhile, Marilyn Monroe was putting on makeup. She ignored the conversation around her. Her goal? Look pretty. It got her through a lot up to this point. Now, if only she could find some coke. It'd make this experience a helluva lot more enjoyable. She certainly did not want to sleep with either President sober. President Lincoln, in particular, was definitely not a Kennedy. In fact, he quite possibly was the ugliest man she had ever seen.

"So, you say you're from Europe, right?" George W. Bush asked Shakespeare. The two looked incredibly strange sitting next to one another; William Shakespeare wore his typical English garb, while George W. Bush was in flannel, wearing a cowboy hat and boots. Shakespeare nodded, "Indeed, I am." George W. Bush chuckled, "I went there before. My boy Tony lives over in London, you know him?"

Shakespeare shook his head. He slowly was realizing that nobody knew he was. Especially this George W. Bush guy. He always hoped for posthumous fame, and the fact that he was not recognized really left him in an existential rut. "No, I do not know your boy Tony," Shakespeare replied, "I have not had the pleasure of meeting him." He drifted off as he examined the woman dressed in black next to him.

Mary Shelley was rocking back and forth. She was still having a tough time coming to grips with her situation. Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she, God forbid, a raised creation, like Frankenstein? She shivered. "There must be some kind of way out of here," she whispered to herself.

Abraham Lincoln looked over his group of six, and sighed heavily. "I am so fucked," he said. He returned to his post at the window, looking out at the forest.

Mohandas Gandhi walked into the forest. He had checked his bag. He found a medium-sized IMI Submachine gun. God must sure have a sense of humor, he mused to himself. Give the most powerful weapon to Gandhi. Maybe the old fuck will finally give in and start poppin' some caps.

Is that what they say now? "Poppin' caps?" The image of Gandhi mowing down his competitors with a submachine gun made even Gandhi smile. It was not going to happen, of course. But it was a funny thought. Actually, it really was not that funny.

_What has God gotten me into this time?_

Violence would only harm reputations. Especially his. And whether Gandhi admitted or not, he was very much concerned about his reputation. In fact, every person here was concerned about it. They might not know it now, but the defining conflict of Battle Royale: Historical Figures would be who was willing to change themselves to persevere. Gandhi was not willing to change. He was quite willing to die a martyr again.

After all, didn't this whole resurrection process prove how fickle death really was?

"Mohandas Gandhi," a voice said. Instinctively, Gandhi spun around and aimed his gun towards the voice. "Woah, woah," the black man said, "I mean you no harm, friend." The African-American chuckled, "And boy, I never thought I would be in a stick-up with Gandhi."

"I'm Martin Luther King," the man smiled at him, embracing Gandi, "You have no idea how happy I am to finally meet you. We have a lot to talk about."

"Work together, stick together, thrive," Karl Marx said, looking at his two fellow comrades.

"Says the Bolshevik filth," Adolf Hitler laughed. Marx glared at him. "That was over sixty years ago, Adolf, can't you get over it?"

Hitler shrugged. "I'm kidding, Karl," he said, "What do they say now? It's all good in the hood, right?" He was leaning against a rock, eating loudly. "I don't know why I was so afraid of these," Hitler smiled, chewing on a bagel, "They are delicious."

Marx thought he had a very formidable team. Adolf Hitler, Charles Darwin, and, of course, himself. They were, after all, three of the most influential figures in modern history. And they knew what they were going to have to do. They were not afraid to get their hands dirty. They were going to survive.

Hitler offered half of the bagel to Darwin, who politely refused. Charles had mixed emotions. His idea of "survival of the fittest" was one of the most misunderstood dogmas ever. It was not meant for anything but animal survival. Not this. But it provided reasoning to be a total ruthless asshole. And that reasoning, he supposed, would have to work.

"Let's do this," Karl Marx said. He grabbed his SPAS-12 shotgun and pumped it. "It's hunting season, boys," he muttered.


	5. First Blood

Napoleon Bonaparte tracked his prey.

He found his target wandering through the forest. It was George Washington, or so his "device" told him. Napoleon Bonaparte found the contraption in his duffel bag. Admittedly, he had a difficult time figuring it out. And he did not trust it. "Napoleon Bonaparte does not use machines," Napoleon muttered as he shook the device, "He just wants a fuckin' sword."

And George Washington had that fuckin' sword. The sword, though, was entirely unfamiliar to him. He had never wielded, much less used, the katana Washington carried on him. Nevertheless, Napoleon could not win without a good weapon. He could, however, kill without one.

_Napoleon walks alone on a white sandy beach. He's leaning heavily on a crutch. His face is pale, and he's clearly very sick. In his other hand, he carries a small book. Napoleon opens it up and begins to read. It is his handwriting:_

"_For years, I led my people. And now, I left my people. I wish this guilt on no man, even my worst enemies. I was their hero, their fearless leader. And now, what am I? Stuck on an island, dying of cancer? If there's one wish I could get, it would be redemption. To prove to my people that I could win. And, even, to prove to myself."_

_Napoleon closes his book. He pauses. He sinks to the ground and begins to dig frantically in the sand. Tears stream down his face. He buries the book and covers it up. "Redemption?" he yells, "I'll die alone on this island!"_

_Napoleon's voice echoes. Nobody hears him._

Napoleon waited, studying Washington. Although aggressive, Napoleon learned from his mistakes. He was calculative.

Washington was an altogether awkward creature. He was tall, of course. The former president was lot taller than Napoleon Bonaparte, although you would never get the Frenchman to admit it. It would be a tough fight. Objectively, Napoleon would not be favored, but he did not care. This was the guy who invented swagger. He would have taken on Washington even if he was wielding two machine guns.

The President began walking along a small paved path. The path circled around a large lake. A large artificial fountain sprang from the middle of the water. Napoleon thought that there was something ironic about the beauty of the place, especially since it would be the site of so much death. Napoleon began moving closer and closer, waiting for an opportunity.

**-CRUNCH-**

_Shit_. Napoleon slowly began to retreat, hoping the President would not hear his mistake.

George Washington turned, facing the woods. "Who is it?" he said, placing his hand on his katana, "I mean you no harm. Who is it?" Napoleon backed up and dove into some bushes.

"Hello?" Washington continued to question. He was now in the woods, approaching Napoleon's hiding place. He had almost discovered him.

**-BANG-**

The bullet hit George Washington in the stomach. He fell to his knees, dropping his katana. His eyes met Napoleon's. Napoleon began to panic. What the fuck was going on? George Washington continued looking at Napoleon. Suddenly, the President smiled.

Then, Washington glanced down at his stomach. "Oh god," he muttered. Then, he vomited. "Oh god," he said again. He kept on vomiting.

"Be quiet, ol' man," a female's voice warned, "It's be over soon."

Napoleon looked out towards the ground. He saw a pair of black legs. "Sorry, but I gotsta win, suh," she said, "Besides, you nevuh really like my kind anyways."

Harriet Tubman approached George Washington. She carried a Colt Python in her right hand. Casually, she placed the gun on Washington's forehead. The president was still vomiting. "I'll put you out of your misery, Mr, President," she said.

**-BANG-**

Blood and brains splattered Napoleon. The French General held back a whimper. This was all too soon for his liking.

Harriet Tubman sniffed the air. She paused. Napoleon held his breath.

Tubman reached down to the ground. She retrieved his katana and duffel bag from the bloody mess that was President Washington. And then she walked off.

Napoleon could not control it any longer, vomiting all over himself. "Get it together, Napoleon," he said to himself. He stood up, grabbed the tracking device, and headed the opposite direction of Tubman. She was not the person he wanted to mess with.

Redemption was very far way.

**MALE #18 GEORGE WASHINGTON DEAD**

**40 LEFT**

"Gorgeous!" Leonardo Da Vinci yelled.

The artist finished putting makeup on Anne Frank, who giggled as she saw her reflection in the mirror. "Awesome!" she yelled, "I look so cute!"

Leonardo had assembled quite the harem.

First, he found Nancy Reagan. "You know, I said no to drugs," Nancy commented to da Vinci, "But I sure would like a joint right now." Nancy, surprisingly, politely refused to join the artist at first. But it was nothing a little persuasion could not cure. Especially when the persuasion was aided by a pistol. "Let's blaze," Leonardo grinned.

Then, he found Laura Wilder. Leonardo did not even ask Laura to join. She simply followed them. And curiously, she had not said a word since.

Joan of Arc joined them at the graveyard. She was praying in front of a few unmarked graves when Leonardo pointed a gun at her. "You want to join them?" he said, motioning to the graves, "Or us?" Joan took the latter option.

And finally, they found Anne Frank hiding in the lighthouse. "You're not that good at hiding," Leonardo joked with her. "Tell me about it," she rolled her eyes.

Leonardo had tight control of the group. These were his women.

The makeup? Well, that was, unfortunately, Joan of Arc's weapon. _Splendid_, Leonardo thought, _Five people and I'm the only one with a weapon?_

The five decided that this lighthouse would be their new home. It, after all, was the most defensible location on the island. It also, however, was a deathtrap waiting to happen.

"Oh, Lord," Joan whispered suddenly. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

_There were two people walking towards the lighthouse. One, a man, had a sword. The other, who appeared to be a woman, had a dagger._

Joan blacked out. She awoke to screams and yells. Her four companions, unsure of what to do, were running in circles and screaming.

"Guys, I'm ok," she told them. They stopped. "But we have company," she whispered. She told them about her vision. "That's nice," Nancy deadpanned, "We're going to trust the ancient woman's vision."

"Yes, we are," Leonardo responded for Joan. He loaded his pistol and turned the safety off. "Wait here," he said, "I'll be downstairs."

The women noticed tears streaming down Leonardo's face. "Are you sure about this?" Anne asked him. Leonardo nodded, choking back his words. "I'm just so, so, so," he repeated, "so so so so so so so so scared."

"Wait!"

Laura Wilder spoke her first word. She looked at Leonardo. "I'm coming with you," she announced, her eyes narrowing. She took out a thin, black baton. "Let's kick some ass," Leonardo said, grinning. He pushed Laura towards the stairwell.

Like it not, Laura Wilder would be the first sacrifice. The first of many for Leonardo.


	6. Deus Ex Machina

_Mark Antony stands at the funeral of Julius Caesar. He looks over the large crowd and spots a beautiful woman, Cleopatra. The two exchange smiles. Antony winks, and then begins to speak._

"_Friends, Romans, countrymen," he begins, "Lend me your ears."_

"I swear Julius, I was only involved with Mark after you died," Cleopatra said.

"Yeah, how long after I died?" he rebutted, "I may be a lot of things, Cleopatra, but I am not an idiot. In fact, I don't even know why I'm keeping you around."

Despite his claims, Julius was, in fact, an idiot. The two were walking towards the lighthouse. Just moments earlier, Laura Wilder and Leonardo Da Vinci had begun descending the stairs. And they were awaiting the couple.

"Can't we just move on?" Cleopatra questioned, "I mean, we finally get a chance to do this over again and you're dwelling in the past."

"You just don't get it," Julius told her, "We -are- the past. This isn't a new future. We're not here for redemption. We're here to kill, then go back to rotting in our fucking graves. This is death's deus ex machina. A cruel twist of fate."

They reached the lighthouse door. "We'll talk about this later," Julius muttered, "Get your weapon ready."

Before Julius could turn the knob, the door swung open and smacked him in the face. Disoriented, he backed away and fell to the ground. Cleopatra stood in front of the open door, alone. She faced a man who was wielding a pistol.

The man paused. "I love your wardrobe," he told Cleopatra, admiring her toga.

**-BANG-**

Despite being at point blank range, the bullet hit Cleopatra in the shoulder. She whimpered and fell to her knees. Blood seeped through her toga, turning it red.

**-BANG-**

Another bullet hit Cleopatra, this time in her chest. She collapsed face-forward.

"Son of a bitch!"

Suddenly, Julius rushed towards Leonardo. He wielded a long sword. In an upward motion, he slashed the face of the Renaissance artist.

Leonardo Da Vinci emitted a loud, girlish scream. He fired a bullet blindly in the air. Promptly, he ran up the stairs, covering his face with his hand. Julius followed close behind. Halfway up the stairs, da Vinci collided with Laura Wilder. "Outta my way bitch!" Leonardo yelled, pushing Laura. She fell down the stairs and landed at Julius's feet. Julius, momentarily disoriented, glanced down at the defenseless Laura. Then he yelled a guttural cry, swiftly bringing his sword down towards the girl's stomach.

Showing surprising awareness, Laura rolled to the side. The sword struck her hand, pinning her to the ground. Laura yelled in agony. Despite temporary disorientation, she swung her black baton at Julius' legs.

**-BZZT-**

The stun sent a shock up his spine, causing him to fall to the ground. Laura attempted to get up, but the sword pinned her down. If she moved too fast, she risked losing her hand completely.

"YOU WHORE!"

Julius Caesar stepped on Laura's other hand. She screamed and released her stun gun. Laura was definitely stuck to the ground.

"I got you now," Julius Caesar said, grinning.

Caesar yanked the sword out of Laura's hand. Blood flowed freely from the gaping wound. "That's it," he smiled. He brought the sword down on her stomach, piercing her. "Stop!" Laura yelped. Julius Caeser shook his head, taking the sword out of her stomach. He stabbed again. And again.

After nearly a minute, he stopped. Laura vomited blood and her bowels released. She was clearly dead. Julius Caesar reached into her mangled hand and took the stun gun. He took a deep breath. His first kill in a thousand years. He felt liberated. He felt new. Perhaps this was another chance.

"Julius.."

_Fuck. Cleopatra._

Caesar turned around and raced through the doorway.

Cleopatra was lying on her back. Her toga was covered in blood. Her hand was hopelessly trying to stop her stomach's bleeding. Julius sat beside her and cradled her head.

"Cleo.." he whispered hoarsely, "You're going to make it.. You'll be okay."

Cleopatra smiled and shook her head. "I'm going to die, Julius," she said plainly.

"I'm sorry, Cleo," he said. Again, she shook her head, "Fate, right? Deus ex machine and all that stuff," she smiled, "Besides, this time I'll die first."

Cleopatra took a deep breath and moaned. "Go get em, Seze," she breathed. Then she passed out.

Caesar slowly rested her body onto the ground. Grabbing her dagger, he cut a lock of her hair. He glanced up at the lighthouse. Then down at Cleopatra. "Not now, Cleo," he told her, "I have to take this second chance."

He grabbed her bag and ran into the woods.

**FEMALE #12 CLEOPATRA DEAD**

**FEMALE #18 LAURA WILDER DEAD**

**38 LEFT**

Alexander the Great was following the naked lady. It really was quite the unusual reversal of fortunes. Usually naked ladies followed him around.

The lady was difficult to miss. She was, after all, naked. The only thing she carried with her was a pair of binoculars. He spotted her entering the residential district, where Alexander went immediately after he left the school. He needed a drink. And, luckily, he found a bottle of strong stuff at a house. Soon, he was hitting the bottle.

He drunkenly followed her throughout the village. She entered a house and closed the door behind her. Napoleon finished the bottle of alcohol and tossed it behind him. She would be his first victim, he knew it. He took a pickaxe out of his bag and began walking towards the door.

_"Alexander."_

_Alexander sits behind a desk. He is halfway through a bottle of rum. "Alexander," the voice says again, "Are you ever going to give up drinking? It will ruin you."_

_Alexander looks up at one of his wives. He shakes his head. "Are you ever going to give up hassling me?" he asks back. She stares at him. Then, she laughs._

"_If only you had half as much dedication to your people than you do to your bottle," she smiles, "Goodbye, Alexander."_

Alexander woke up in the middle of the street. It was nearing dark. Jagged pieces of the broken bottle were scattered around him. He cursed, then staggered to his feet. He slowly hobbled towards the door. He opened it.

A strong smell met him.

He walked in and moved towards the kitchen. The stove was turned on; he smelled it from where he stood. He opened the door and entered. A nude figure was sprawled on the table. It was Eve. She was dead.

"Thanks for taking care of my job for me," Alexander muttered. He turned off the stove and walked out of the house.

**FEMALE #20 EVE DEAD**

**37 LEFT**


	7. No Exit

The sun began to set on the island. Albert Einstein, like many others, thought the beautiful scene was extremely ironic. "There's so much beauty in dirt," he mused, brushing his hair with his hand.

He closed the window, then turned to pace down the hallway of the house, talking to himself.

"I can't believe I got caught up in this," he said. "I have to find a way out." Einstein, though, was stumped. And, as usual, he could not deal with failure. He refused to recognize the inevitability of it all. Even if he did manage to find a way to disarm his collar, where would he go? There was nothing else in this dimension. There was no exit.

He sighed and looked back outside. "Seven days of this?" he asked rhetorically. "Not going to happen," he shook his head.

"I'll give you one, old man," said a _slightly _feminine voice, "You're fucking dead, partner."

A tall, stocky lady in a black pants suit emerged from the shadows. She pumped her Remington 870 Shotgun. "Eat shit," she said.

**-BOOM-**

The close range caused Albert to fly back and hit a wall. The shotgun shell had torn a hole through his fragile body. He died instantly. Albert Einstein found his exit.

"Couldn't solve yourself out of this one, could ya?"

Janet Reno recorded her first kill. She laughed, slinging the shotgun across her shoulder. "Jesus, I feel like fuckin' dancing," she said. She walked to the back door and smacked the glass with her shotgun butt. She watched it shatter, then she strode through. Janet Reno was in it to win it.

"I'm fuckin' ruthless," she laughed.

**MALE #9 ALBERT EINSTEIN DEAD**

**36 REMAIN**

Louis XVI was gorging himself. And he had been for the past seven hours. "I can't help it, Saddam," he told his companion, "I eat my feelings, man."

"You must be really fucked up," Saddam rebutted. He politely kept watch the whole time as his only ally disgustingly plowed through his week's rations. Saddam sighed. Numbers are better, right? But this was getting out of hand.

They were in a giant shrine. Limestone pillars held up a marble roof. There were no walls; they were just hiding in the open, hidden by phallic symbols.

"I'm so hungry," Louis said. _Twenty_, Saddam thought._ That's the twentieth time he's said that in the past hour._

"Let me have your food," Louis demanded, "I ran out of mine."

Saddam turned around. The King was on his back, rubbing his stomach. "No," he said quite plainly. He turned back around.

"I'm not joking around," Louis said, chuckling, "Feed me."

"Or what?" Saddam questioned, turning back around, "You'll strangle me?" The King's weapon was a simple rope. "Try it, buddy," he challenged. Louis didn't do anything.

The two stared at each other for nearly five minutes. It was a staring contest for history. Finally, Louis looked away.

"That's what I thought," Saddam said, grinning. He turned around triumphantly.

Saddam suddenly felt something drop around his neck and tighten. He looked down. It was a rope. "Feel familiar, bastard?" Louis whispered into his ear.

_Saddam stands in the small room. Two hooded figures stand next to him. He carries a Qur'an with him. "Down the invaders!" he shouts to the crowd. They all stare blankly back at him._

_So this is how it ends._

"_Saddam Hussein," someone questions him, "Do you feel guilty for what you have done?"_

"_No," Saddam replies, "I am a militant and I have no fear for myself. I have spent my life in jihad and fighting aggression. Anyone who takes this should not be afraid."_

_The crowd jeers. Someone curses him. Another person tells him to go to hell. His executioners begin tightening the rope around his neck._

"_Allah Akhbar," Saddam says, "The Muslim Ummah will be victorious and Palestine is Arab!"_

_Someone throws something at him. Saddam repeats himself. The executioner nods._

_The trapdoor opens._

Saddam began to feel the air drain from his lungs. Louis cackled as he strangled Saddam.

"No," Saddam gasped for air. He reached to his belt, grabbing his weapon.

He swung the axe backwards and hit Louis in the leg.

"Fuck!"

Louis lessened his grip. Saddam caught his breath.

Then, it tightened again. "Nice try, buddy," Louis taunted. Saddam's face grew red with anger and oxygen deprivation.

_No. This will not happen again._

"Allah!" he screamed.

With surprising dexterity, he swung the axe over his head and let go.

He felt the rope loosen entirely. Saddam sank to his knees and caught his breath. Quickly, he turned around.

Louis' eyes were staring at the axe embedded in his forehead. He backed up. "What? What?" he questioned, staring at the axe.

He staggered back, colliding with a pillar. The impact caused him to fall face-forward. The axe's handle hit the ground, forcing the blade deeper into his skull. He was dead.

Mockingly, Saddam took an apple and placed it in his mouth. "Eat that, you filthy pig," he taunted.

He yanked the axe out of the dead man's skull and walked off.

**MALE #14 LOUIS XVI DEAD**

**35 REMAIN**


	8. Alliances

Pocahontas awoke to a loud voice. It was Jack Bauer. Seven had died on Day 1. "Well on pace, guys," Jack Bauer yelled, "Great fucking job!" After his announcement, Jack took the opportunity to plug his _24 DVD Collection_, as well as ramble about the geopolitical realities of the Korean Peninsula.

"Seven down?" Pocahantas said over the voice of Jack Bauer.

"Figures," replied Sacagawea, dressing herself. The two had instantly bonded. They were, after all, the only Native Americans. And, of course, they shared the sad commonality of having been fooled by white people. They'd betrayed their races just to save themselves. And they'd seen their families become part of genocide.

_Sacagawea walks through a small forest. She waits. She presses her ear against the ground. "We're clear here," she says._

_A group of fifteen follows her through the clearing. They are all white. Suddenly, Sacagawea holds up her hand. "We have company," she whispers._

_A group of twenty Native Americans surrounds them. "Tell them we mean no harm, Sacagawea," someone tells her. Sacagawea obeys._

_She knows what is happening. The Native Americans, of course, nod and begin to walk away. Then, fire._

_**-BOOM-**_

_Their bodies fall on top of one another as she watches. Soon, the air smells of burnt flesh. She collects their valuables and appraises them without flinching._

_Just another day._

Sacagawea opened her eyes. It was not going to happen this time. They had something to prove.

Pocahontas carried a crossbow and Sacagawea wielded a jackknife. Together they were a pretty formidable combination. And, unlike many, they were not avoiding the inevitable. In fact, they were actively looking for a fight. Unfortunately, they hadn't run into anyone yet.

"You ready, girl?" Sacagawea said, sheathing her jackknife, which she had been polishing. "Yup," Pocahontas grinned. They took off, looking for a target.

Susan B. Anthony had put together an elite group of women.

First, herself, wielding Nunchaku. Then, Amelia Earhart, brandishing a Machete. Followed by Emily Bronte with a Kama, and finally, Helen of Troy with a proximity mine. They were tough, badass, and could beat anyone. At least, they were pretty sure of it.

They were camped out by a large lake. After patrolling the area, they'd been horrified to discover a mutilated corpse. The entire area smelled of decaying flesh. Needless to say, they were officially on guard.

But they were not quite sure what to think when they saw a tall figure waving at them. He was walking straight towards their camp, seemingly unaware of any danger.

"Guys, follow my lead," Susan whispered. She was the de facto leader of the group.

"We have to kill him," Helen spoke up. This response elicited resistance from a couple of the women.

"Hello ladies," the man said, "I am Sir Isaac Newton."

"Step back!" Amelia Earhart suddenly yelled, jabbing her machete in the air.

"What are you doing?" Emily screamed at the pilot, "He's not going to kill us!"

Isaac raised his hands in the air, showing that he had no weapons. "I come in peace, ladies," he said, "I'm harmless, really."

Emily stepped in front of the Amelia's machete. "Don't kill him," she said, "He hasn't done anything to us!"

"It's the nature of the game," Helen insisted, "If we don't kill him, we will be killed." Helen glanced down at her hand. She was clutching the trigger for her proximity mine. It was planted nearby. She could easily kill Newton with a press of the button.

"We can stop it!" Emily yelled, "We can, I know we can!" Quite frankly, Emily was disgusted that they were even having this conversation. Killing should never be an option.

Susan pondered the situation. Everyone was waiting for her decision.

"Amy's right," Susan nodded, "We have to kill him."

"Oh, that's just great," Isaac sighed, "I suppose I should get going now, then." He began to slowly step backwards.

"Not so fast," Susan said, taking out her nunchaku, "Stay right there." Isaac sighed and slumped his shoulders. He shrugged.

"We are preserving the females," she told Emily Bronte, "Now, just step aside, Emily."

Emily paused and looked at her allies. She had to make a decision. So she pulled off the Kama from her back. The Japanese sickle had a wide reach.

"Ahem," said Isaac Newton, "Emily, you should step away from me. God bless you, but let them do what they want. I've died once. I can do it again."

Emily looked at the girls one last time. "Don't do this, Em," Helen told her.

"I have to," she replied. Suddenly, she pushed Isaac backwards, "Run!"

**-BOOM-**

Everything happened quickly. Helen pulled back Susan and Amy while Isaac and Emily began to run. She pressed the trigger to the proximity mine.

The mine exploded and instantly caused a blinding flash. Smoke filled the air. When Helen could see again, she saw Amy and Susan behind her, lying on the ground. They were coughing, but still alive and healthy. In front of her, a mangled pile of blood and body parts lay in a heap where the mine was.

"I had to kill her," Helen whispered, "Survival of the fittest, right?"

Unbeknownst to Helen, about a hundred feet into the wood, Emily Bronte was still alive. She had an annoying burn on one side of her body, but was able to run and walk with only a minimal amount of pain. Hidden by the trees, she looked back at the girls and shook her head. They had lost their way.

**MALE #17 ISAAC NEWTON DEAD**

**34 REMAIN**


	9. Sinners and Saints

**-BANG-**

The blast hit Winston Churchill in the shoulder. The sudden pain made him stagger. Disoriented, he tried looking for the source. Annie Oakley met his eyes with a stony glare. She shot again.

**-BANG-**

Winston jumped. The bullet just missed him.

_There must be some way out of here._

He began to run through the forest. To his west, he saw the beginnings of the residential district. Winston turned towards tthat direction. He could hide there. That was his only option; his brass knuckles were virtually useless against Oakley's firepower.

**-BANG-**

He felt another bullet whiz by his ear. "You're not going to live!" the woman called out, "Give up, you fat fuck!"

He saw a clearing ahead. Damn her, Annie was in much better shape than he was, and she was quickly catching up on him. He reached the end of the forest. Winston took a left, passed a few houses, and took another right. A door stood wide open.

He ducked inside. And to his surprise, he saw two people meditating. They had guns at their sides. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!" he yelled, turning around to retreat.

"Wait!" said a voice, "We mean you no harm. We are not here to kill." Winston looked out the door, and then glanced back at the two figures, recognizing one.

_Bloody hell. Gandhi. My arch-nemesis._

He looked out the door and then looked towards Gandhi. "Bloody hell," he said, shutting the door. "Listen," Churchill started, "I know we didn't get along.."

"Didn't get along?" Gandhi interjected, "That's an understatement. I believe you ordered the death of my people."

"Yes, yes," Churchill nodded, keeping an anxious eye on the door, "But there's a girl chasing after me. She already shot me once." He indicated the wound on his shoulder with a wave of his hand. "Anyways," he said, "I would really appreciate it if you could help me out with those."

He pointed towards their guns. And waited, poised to start running again if he had to.

"Isn't this ironic?" Gandhi mused, "The colonialist pig begging the Indian for help." He laughed and shook his head. "Here, take," he motioned with his submachine gun.

**-BANG-**

Glass shattered. She'd found him. Winston hesitated, looking at Gandhi and his vaguely familiar accomplice. _These fucks weren't going to trap him, were they? Well, one way to find out._

He grabbed the gun, turned off the safety, and sprayed bullets towards the window.

**-TCH TCH TCH-**

None of the shots hit. Annie Oakley stopped. She took one look inside and saw three men with weaponry. She rolled her eyes and turned around. This was not her battle anymore.

Winston waited for a good solid minute, and then turned around. He clicked the safety back on and threw the gun at Gandhi's feet. "Thanks," he muttered. Gandhi smiled. "Let's get you bandaged up, shall we?" he said. "Martin, grab me the supplies," he told Martin Luther King Jr. Martin gritted his teeth and nodded, reluctantly fetching the equipment.

Winston glanced up at Martin. Then down at the guns next to Gandhi.

_What kind of fucked up world am I in?_

Emily Dickinson watched Mother Teresa sleep. She played absently with her coat hanger in one hand.

Mother Teresa clutched an AK-47 machine gun (the Kalashnikov) tightly to her chest. Despite her insistence to sleep with the weapon, she already told Emily she would not use it. "I'm a saint," Mother Teresa said, "There's no way I'm going to ruin my reputation for whatever this is."

They were inside a small medical center, located on the eastern side of the island. Mother Teresa and Emily met about an hour after the start, resolving to work together. At least that's what Mother Teresa thought.

You see, Emily knew that she could not attack Mother Theresa in plain sight. She had an AK-47. And even though Teresa asserted that she would not fire it, fear can make you do some pretty crazy things. So Emily waited. Mother Teresa's weapon would be extremely valuable, but it needed to be taken at the right time.

Now was the time.

Emily stood up and slowly walked towards Mother Teresa.

"Because I could not stop for death," Emily whispered, "Death stopped for me." With one swift movement, Emily began to choke Mother Teresa with her coat hanger.

"What are you doing?" Mother Teresa coughed out, waking quickly from her slumber.

"It'll be over soon!" Emily screamed, "You're going to a better life, right?"

**-CLICK-**

Emily heard Mother Theresa's gun click. She tightened her choke. "Embrace your fear!" she yelled in Theresa's ear.

Mother Theresa looked down at her weapon. In the last moment of her life, she disarmed the weapon. The bullets fell onto the ground. Emily loosened her hold on the saint's neck to reach for the ammunition.

With surprising speed, Mother Theresa snatched up the cartridges and forced them down her throat. They quickly clogged her airway, but it was worth it. She would remain a saint.

"You stupid bitch!" Emily yelled, "What the hell are you doing?"

Mother Teresa went limp. Emily sighed. "You deserved it," she said, looking down at the body, "You were weak."

It took her a while, but she managed to reassemble the AK-47. "Now we have to get those bullets out of you," she told the lifeless corpse. She began laughing, fashioning her coat hanger into a sharp edge. Emily began the task of repeatedly at stabbing the throat of Mother Teresa.

She was going to find those bullets.

**FEMALE #14 MOTHER THERESA DEAD**

**33 REMAIN**


End file.
